He's got all the time in the world, there isn't much one can do while confined to bed. Perhaps he'll evaluate his life, there are more important things for a millionaire to do then sit on your ass all day. Sure, it'd be difficult to give up the adulation of millions and the pride of being an icon. Maybe drugs would help.
He could retire and be an elder of the movement. They'd beat a path to his door bearing gifts and stipends. A clamor will arise for his presence, his wisdom will be unchallenged. Provisions will be made for bouncing platforms at every dais. He'll be hailed. He'll get all the drugs he can possibly consume, with his doctor's approval of course.
It can be a good life; no more daily pressures, no more deadlines, no more faux outrage (that really is exhausting). "Yes," he thinks, "I can do this. After all my health comes first. I can diet, I can exercise and I'll lose weight. I'll be lean and mean just like I am in my dreams. Nobody will call me fathead. Yes, I can do this."
On New Years Day 2010 Rush Limbaugh announces his retirement. Dittoheads everywhere are disturbed, teabaggers are aghast. Their leader is gone and all they have to show for it is Michael Steele.
At a hastily called conference it is agreed to disband the party if Limbaugh can't be lured from retirement. A delegation is dispatched to his villa in Hawaii. Following an audience a spokesman tells the press, "He wouldn't listen. He only wanted to show off his abs." Two weeks later the republican party is quietly dissolved. Chaos rules in talk radio. Heads explode.